The first sensation to return was the cold. Not the clean, sterile cold of the void, but the deep, mineral chill of a mountain's heart, a cold that had seeped into the stone over millennia and now breathed it back into the still air. Lucifera awoke with the silent, instantaneous clarity of a predator. There was no groggy transition, only the abrupt click of consciousness engaging.

She was in the spare room, curled on the thin mattress. Every muscle protested with a dull, deep seated ache, the price for carrying a prince through the terrors of the Plaza. For a few heartbeats, she simply lay there, listening. The silence from the main chamber was absolute, thick and heavy as a shroud. No whimpers of pain, no ragged breathing. Just the profound, drugged stillness of two bodies pushed beyond their limits.

Rising, she padded to the curtain and pulled it aside just enough to peer into the sanctum. In the bloody gloom of the dying Tapestry, she could make out the shape on the large divan: Statera and Nyxara, each curled around their son, a tangle of protective limbs and fur. The boys were lost to the Polaris sleep, their faces pale and eerily peaceful, all traces of the previous night's animalistic torment smoothed away by the artificial calm. They looked heartbreakingly young.

Out in the main chamber, Statera was the next to surface. Her awakening was slower, a reluctant swim upwards from the depths of exhaustion. The first thing she registered was the weight and warmth of Shiro against her, the steady, deep rhythm of his drugged breath. The second was the phantom scream of the needle in her shoulder, a dull, throbbing echo of the previous night's brutal ministrations. Then came the memory, crashing down with the weight of a glacier: the salves, the silenced screams, the terrible, necessary violation of the syringe.

Her eyes opened, meeting Nyxara's across the narrow space between their sons. The Queen was already awake, her multi hued eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on Kuro's sleeping face. No words were needed. The same horrific film played behind both their eyes, the contorted faces, the muffled shrieks, the feeling of holding down their own children to inflict a mercy that felt like torture.

Statera saw the shadow of that night hardening in Nyxara's gaze. The gentle, teasing mother was gone, burned away in the crucible of that agony. What remained was a core of something colder, sharper.

"They will not suffer like that again," Nyxara whispered, her voice rough with disuse, yet absolute. It was not a hope. It was a vow carved into stone.

Statera simply nodded, the movement making her shoulder pulse with pain. She gently extricated herself from Shiro's side, her Polaris light a feeble glow in the gloom. "The council," she said, the word tasting like ash. "They will be waiting."

"Let them wait," Nyxara replied, but she too began to move, untangling herself from Kuro with infinite care, as if he were made of glass. "They wait for a queen who begged for peace. They will meet a queen who has seen the cost of weakness."

The transformation was silent and swift. They shed the roles of comforting mothers like old skins. Nyxara's simple tunic was replaced by a gown of deep amethyst and silver, its threads woven with dormant starlight. The act of dressing was a ritual, each layer a piece of armour reassembled. Statera, too, shrugged on her formal councillor's robes, the blue and white fabric a stark reminder of a neutrality she could no longer afford. Her duty was to Polaris, to balance. But her hearts, now a raw, external things that slept on a divan, belonged to this family. Balance was a luxury for those whose children were safe.

Before leaving, Nyxara turned to the spare room. "Lucifera," she said, her voice soft but firm. "A request, not an order. The Sirius Clan involves itself in politics only by choice. But as my friend… as their aunt… will you watch over them while we are gone? No one else can be trusted."

Lucifera emerged from the shadows. She glanced at the sleeping forms, then back at Nyxara. A flicker of something unreadable passed behind her brilliant white eyes. It was not a political calculation. "The children will be safe," she stated flatly. "I assure you."

With that, the two women left the sanctum, the heavy star engraved door sealing behind them with a sound like a tomb closing. They walked the silent, icy corridors not as supplicants, but as avengers, the memory of their sons pain a torch that burned away all hesitation.

The chamber they entered was a cavernous maw of shadows and hostile light. The Council of Clans was not convened; it was a gathering of jackals who sensed a wounded queen. The air vibrated with a low, psychic hum of discontent.

The chamber they entered was a cavernous maw of shadows and hostile light. The Council of Clans was a seething pit of factional rage.

The roar focused into the gaunt, furnace hot form of Umbra'zel of Algol. "Oh the Queen Finally comes out of hiding, 'Queen'." The title was a spit of venom. "We have felt the weakness in your line. We have seen your… distraction. The Algol Clan does not parley. We feast. And if our Queen lacks the stomach to lead the hunt…"

He let the threat hang, a promise of usurpation.

Nyxara's voice, when it came, was the calm, deadened tone of Polaris logic, cold and sharp as an ice blade. "You speak of feasting, Umbra'zel? While the embers of Betelgeuse cool? While the Vega poets tear themselves apart? You would lead a charge with warriors who can muster one 'Ember Burst' before flickering out for days. Is that your grand strategy? A single, glorious flash before the long, cold dark?"

Phthoriel of Betelgeuse, a mountain of cooling stone, shifted uncomfortably, the orange fissures in his skin flaring with a dim, pained light. "The Queen speaks truth, Algol," he rumbled, his voice like grinding rock. "My people are spent. A direct assault is suicide."

"Suicide is preferable to slow starvation!" Umbra'zel shot back, the air around him shimmering with void tainted heat. "Would you have us wither here in this frozen tomb, listening to the Vega whine themselves to death?"

Lyrathiel of Vega shot to her feet, her delicate form trembling. "Whine? We are being torn asunder! The 'Harp's Lure' calls half our number to rebellion, the rest beg Ryo for scraps! Another battle will shatter us completely! We are poets, not soldiers! We need a concord, not a crusade!"

"There can be no concord with the Void King!"

"There can be no victory without strength we do not possess!"

The chamber devolved into a cacophony of shouts and accusations, a microcosm of the empire's collapse. It was then that Statera stepped forward. All eyes turned to the Polaris councillor, expecting the traditional call for calm.

They were met with something else entirely.

"The envoy's passion is noted," Statera said, her voice cutting through the din with an unnatural, chilling stillness. "But this debate is a corpse, twitching. Peace is a phantom. I have seen its true face." Her Polaris light, usually a beacon, seemed to draw the warmth from the air. "It is the face of a boy, screaming into leather as his eye is carved out. It is the sound of a mother holding her son down so he can be poisoned into silence just to survive the night."

The raw, visceral horror of her words stunned the room into silence. She looked directly at Nyxara, a silent communication passing between them.

"The Polaris Lumine," Statera declared, her voice ringing with finality, "stands with our Queen. Not for a doomed charge, but for a war of annihilation. We do not yearn for peace. We will take the fight to Ryo. We will burn his citadel to the ground and salt the earth with his follower's ashes."

The silence that followed was profound. Lyrathiel stared, aghast. Phthoriel looked from Statera's icy fury to Nyxara's grim resolve, his stony face unreadable. Umbra'zel was speechless, his void hot fury frozen by the sheer, unexpected vehemence.

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This was not the Queen of peace. This was not the neutral Councillor.

"This is madness!" a Sirius pair hissed in unison, their voices a chilling stereo. "The Clan Sirius does not sanction this recklessness. We observe. We calculate. This… this is emotional folly."

"Then observe from the sidelines," Nyxara said, her voice low but carrying to every corner of the chamber. "Calculate our odds. But do not stand in our way." Her gaze swept over them all, a queen reclaiming her throne not through debate, but through sheer, terrifying will. "The time for voting is over. My authority is absolute. We are at war. The next words spoken in this chamber will be battle plans. Any other topic will be considered treason."

She did not wait for a response. Turning on her heel, she walked from the chamber, Statera a step behind her. They left behind a stunned silence, the hungry eyes of the clans wide with a new, unfamiliar emotion. The gallows they had built for their queen now stood empty, and the shadow of the noose fell, instead, upon any who would dissent. The war for the throne was over. The war for survival had begun.

Back in the frozen heart of the royal sanctum, the silence was a different entity. It was not the tense, political quiet of the council chamber, but a watchful, protective hush. Lucifera had not moved from her post by the spare room door, a statue of obsidian vigilance. The only change was the slight, rhythmic tightening of her hands into fists and then their deliberate relaxation, a silent exercise to keep her own weary muscles engaged. The boredom was a subtle torture, but the sight of the two still forms on the divan made it a sacred duty.

The star engraved door slid open with a whisper, and the two women returned. The moment they crossed the threshold, the transformation was immediate and profound. The regal bearing of the Queen and the steely resolve of the Councillor sloughed off them like discarded armour. The door sealed, and they were simply mothers again, their faces etched with a fatigue that was more soul deep than physical.

Statera's gaze went first to the chest of medicines. Without a word, she moved to it, her movements precise and grim. She laid out the cruel, curved needle, the gut thread, the antiseptic tinctures that smelled of bitter root. The instruments gleamed dully in the Tapestry's morbid light. This was not a healer's preparation; it was a surgeon's grim ritual.

Nyxara went to the divan, kneeling beside Kuro. She brushed the hair from his damp forehead, her touch infinitely gentle. "They're still deep under," she murmured, her voice soft with a worry that had been absent in the council chamber.

"The body needs time to process the trauma, even in sleep," Statera replied, not looking up from her grim array. "The waking will be its own kind of agony."

Hours bled into one another, marked only by the faint, irregular pulse of the dying Algol in the Tapestry. The mothers sat in silence, watching their sons, each lost in the grim memory of the night before. The political victory outside these walls felt meaningless against the intimate battlefield that awaited within.

It was Shiro who surfaced first.

A low, ragged groan escaped him, the sound of a consciousness dredging itself up from a tar pit of forced oblivion. His single amber eye fluttered open, unfocused and swimming with confusion. He tried to speak, but his tongue was thick and clumsy. "M'ther…?" he slurred, the word a dry rustle.

"I'm here, my rain baby," Statera was at his side in an instant, her hand cool on his feverish cheek. "You're safe. You're home."

The commotion stirred Kuro. He mumbled something incoherent into his pillow, a sound of pure, petulant annoyance at being disturbed. He tried to burrow deeper into the furs, seeking the sanctuary of sleep once more.

From her corner, Lucifera observed this childish denial. She moved forward, not with Nyxara's tenderness, but with a pragmatic efficiency. She placed a firm, unyielding hand on his shoulder and shook him, just once. "Awake, nephew," she stated, her voice cutting through his drowsy haze. "The reprieve is over. Reality awaits."

Kuro's good eye snapped open, blazing with indignation. "Unhand me," he croaked, his voice cracking. The princely command was utterly undermined by his dishevelled state and the way he winced at the sound of his own voice.

As full consciousness returned, so did the unpleasant physical realities. Their clothes were soaked through with a cold, clammy sweat, the body's desperate attempt to purge the toxins of trauma and powerful sedatives. The room, once a sanctuary, now smelled of sickness and fear.

"Fuck," Shiro muttered, trying to push himself up on trembling arms. The movement sent a fresh, nauseating wave of pain from his branded face and bruised ribs. He gasped, collapsing back against the furs.

"A bath is necessary," Statera declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Before the stitching. We cannot work on filthy, fevered skin."

The idea of moving, let alone bathing, seemed a Herculean impossibility. But the grime and sweat were a fresh layer of humiliation. With immense effort, fuelled by sheer stubborn pride, Shiro attempted to swing his legs over the side of the divan. His muscles, turned to liquid lead by the injection, refused to obey. His legs buckled instantly, and he would have crumpled to the floor if Statera hadn't caught him with a firm grip under his arms.

"And where did you think you were going, my little rain baby?" she asked, a familiar, teasing lilt returning to her voice. It was a weapon against the despair. "Your body is not your own today. It is on loan to me, for repairs."

Across the room, Kuro fared no better. His attempt to stand was a pathetic, wobbling affair that ended with Nyxara sliding a supportive shoulder under his arm, taking his full weight with a grunt of effort. "Easy, my storm baby," she cooed, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of concern and amusement. "The mighty prince, laid low by a little needle. It's almost poetic."

"It was not a 'little needle'," Kuro gritted out, his face flushing as he leaned helplessly against her. "It was a… a spinal invasion."

Lucifera, who had resumed her watchful pose, raised a single eyebrow. "The efficacy of the delivery method is irrelevant. The result, silence and survival, is what matters." A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips. "Though your dramatic descriptions are… entertaining."

The journey to the adjoining bathing chamber was a slow, shuffling procession of the wounded. The room was dominated by a large, natural hot spring pool fed by a vent, the steam carrying the faint, sulphurous scent of the mountain's blood.

The mothers, with a strength that belied their own injuries, began the delicate process of undressing their sons. The twins protests were weak, token things, their embarrassment warring with their utter physical helplessness.

"I can do it," Shiro insisted, his fingers fumbling uselessly at the ties of his tunic.

"Of course you can, darling," Statera said smoothly, batting his hands away and undoing the ties with practiced ease. "Just like you could walk. Now, arms up. Let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be."

Kuro was rigid with humiliation, his jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn't crack. "This is… undignified."

"Oh, hush," Nyxara chided, working his tunic over his head with gentle firmness. "You are my son, not a diplomatic envoy. There is no dignity in needing care, only truth. And the truth is, you are a sweaty, grumpy mess who needs a wash."

Once they were undressed, the true extent of their vulnerability was laid bare. The horrifying X on Shiro's face, the black, tar like salve packed into Kuro's eye socket, the tapestry of bruises from Aella's boots, it was a map of their suffering. The mother's teasing softened, replaced by a sombre, loving determination.

They helped them into the hot, mineral rich water. The twins gasped as the heat penetrated their aching muscles, a sensation that was both excruciating and blissful. For a moment, they simply sat, supported by the stone edge of the pool, letting the steam cleanse the sweat from their pores.

Then the washing began. Statera took a soft cloth and a cake of soap that smelled of pine and healing herbs. She started on Shiro's back, her touch firm but gentle.

"You know," she mused, working the lather over his skin, "for two young men who fancy themselves masters of chaos and strategy, you both become remarkably flustered when your mothers give you a bath."

Shiro sank lower in the water, his cheeks blazing. "It's the principle of the thing."

"The principle is that you are covered in blood, sweat, and mountain filth," Nyxara countered, carefully lathering Kuro's hair while he sat with the rigid posture of a man undergoing an interrogation. "The principle of hygiene supersedes the principle of your wounded pride, my little storm cloud."

Kuro's only response was a low grumble, but he flinched when she carefully avoided the area around his eye. The care in that avoidance was a language he understood better than any tease.

The bathing continued, a strange mixture of intimate care and playful humiliation. The twins were scrubbed, their hair washed, all while enduring a running commentary on their infantile helplessness. They were, for all intents and purposes, infants again, and their mothers were making sure they knew it.

When they were finally clean, the process was reversed. They were helped from the pool, dried with rough towels that felt like sandpaper on their tender skin, and dressed in fresh, soft tunics. The entire ordeal had drained the last of their meagre strength.

Statera guided a swaying Shiro back toward the divan, while Nyxara practically carried a half asleep Kuro.

"Now," Statera said, her voice shifting back to that gentle, unyielding tone she used before medical procedures. She pointed to the divan. "Lie down. Both of you."

The sight of the needle and thread, laid out with grim finality, killed the last of their embarrassment, replacing it with a cold, sharp fear. They obeyed, their bodies sinking into the furs with a profound weariness.

Statera picked up the needle, holding it up to the light. The curved metal gleamed.

"The easy part is over," she said softly. "Now, we sew."

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